In Memorium
by stillgoldie1899
Summary: Hogwarts had fallen, Voldemort had won, and Draco Malfoy was left wondering what the point of it all had been. An AU scrap, written before books 5-7 were published. Just found it archived in my LJ, and I'm tossing it out there for the giggles.


It was hard, in a way, picking through the rubble. A blackened piece of armor here, a charred piece of painting frame there, the bloody stump of an arm ahead. The blitzing of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry had been both swift and brutal.

The school had been the last stronghold of the Light. There were still pockets of resistance left, of course, foolishly hoping for another Harry Potter, but they were being found and stamped out. Just the other day, some paramilitary wizards had found a small group of Weasleys hiding out in a London muggle slum. Ginny and Charlie had been AKed the night before, the twins were being…held for questioning.

He had been present for both the execution and subsequent torture, not directly taking part, but observing. He was always there, always at his master's right hand. Draco Malfoy was the picture perfect Dark Wizard. On the night of his sixteenth birthday, before he got the Mark, he had cut out his own father's still-beating heart with his bare hands and a blunt knife to present to Lord Voldemort. In a rather vile display, the Dark Lord had eaten the heart, gaining back a large portion of his powers as he absorbed Lucius' soul. If Draco hadn't been so triumphant at the time, he might have made a comment about people drinking souls through straws. In those days, the appeal of the Dark Lord was endless. That appeal faded with the passing years.

And long years they had been. Dumbledore had died in an initial assault on the school, Harry Potter had been publicly executed shortly after, and there had been no one left to lead the Light. Sirius Black had tried, for awhile, but no one really trusted him, and he'd been easy to catch. The Light had gone scrambling through a list of increasingly pathetic pesudo-leaders, each easier to do away with then the last. It ate at their morale, they turned by the thousands, begging to have the Mark burned into their flesh to preserve their worthless lives. Voldemort killed most of them himself. He found it…amusing to listen to them scream.

The muggles were in a state of panic as the Dark Lord began taking over governments and countries. At the moment, the Americans were trying to oust him, both the magical and muggle forces, but Voldemort already controlled most of Europe and almost all of it's resources. Soon the Americans would falter and fall as well. And with any luck, Draco would get to watch their simpering fool of a president get his organs trailed down the steps of the White House. That might be worth watching. Or not. It would be nicer to just stay home, the United States didn't agree with his skin much.

In the end, what had started as a glorious cause, ridding the world of the unworthy, had taken on a tedious tone, and Draco was beginning to feel old. Tired and old. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted what looked like the remains of a banner, flapping in the wind. It was green, crossed with silver snakes, the only standing, fluttering thing on the horizon. Slytherin had won the day, after all.

"Malfoy." The hissing voice in his ear would take a lifetime to get used to.

"Yes, Master?"

"Come to me now." Voldemort could have just Called him, but Draco suspected he didn't like wasting power on small things like Calling. Draco was probably the only one who actually saw how weak Voldemort was becoming.

"Of course." Pushing his sleeve up, and fighting a sigh, Draco tapped the tip of his wand to the Mark on his arm, and felt the slightly stomach-dropping sensation of Apperating. Without even opening his eyes, he dropped to one knee, face downcast.

"How can I serve you, Master?" The groveling was nearly killing him, but Voldemort liked his minions to have proper respect, and Draco was too tired to bother being proud.

"Rise, young Malfoy. You may serve me best with your presence. Come, sit next to me."

Feeling very much like a slave girl on display, Draco sat on a low cushion to the right of the Dark Lord's feet.

"Now, Malfoy, tell me. Do you know this mudblood?" Voldemort waved at a huddled figure on her knees, mostly in shadows, before him.

Draco peered into the dark for a moment before nodding. "I do. Hermione Granger. Muggle parents, but good with books. Might make a decent drudge if you could do something with that hair of hers. Almost pretty enough to bother selling." There was a healthy trade in young witches and wizards to the Far East, mostly for domestic use, but a large number ended up in magical brothels. And Hermione had to know that.

"Very good. And you're right. Almost pretty enough to sell. But I was thinking you needed some human touches in that big manor of yours, the elves just don't have the knack. Think of her as…an early Christmas present." Voldemort nodded at the goblin who was holding the chain connected to the silver collar around Hermione's neck, and the creature waddled forward to deposit the end into Draco's hand.

"You know the binding charm, I presume?"

"Of course." Draco murmured, tugging sharply on the chain to get the girl into the light. She had grown since he'd last seen her, and while yes, she still had that mop of frizzy hair, under it was a rather nice face and a nicely proportioned body, if somewhat starved-looking at the moment. Draco nodded. She'd do.

He pointed his wand at her, and snapped, "Ligarete". Strands of air burst from the tip of his wand, winding their way around Hermione, ruffling the scrap of rags that had probably been school robes once. She looked startled, seemed to struggle against the air as it stopped moving, settling on her skin, sinking through it, into flesh and bone. Her jaw clenched, face draining of color as she struggled to not cry out, and Draco knew the charm was burning the binding into her very soul. He was slightly unsettled at the force involved, he had never bound a human before. He realized, as Hermione slumped forward onto her hands and knees, shaking, that this hadn't been a present, not entirely. This had been a test. Well. He had passed.

Voldemort was clapping. "Very nicely done, Malfoy. You may take her home now."

"Of course, sir. Thank you." Draco got up to inspect Hermione, being obvious as he dragged her to her feet and leered at her body while underneath checking that she was breathing properly and seemed generally unharmed. As soon as he judged she was recovered from the shock of the charm, he turned back to Voldemort, bowed and activated his pocket watch, which was a Port Key.

The fireplace was going in formal parlor as he looked up, Hermione staring at it, rather startled.

"Where…how…?" Her voice was a bit lower then he remembered, but then again, the last time he'd heard her speak, she was shrieking hexes at his back. She was considerably more docile now.

"The watch. It's Keyed to the Manor." Draco sat down with a small sigh, waving Hermione closer. She grudgingly moved, arms crossing over her stomach protectively, as if she expected him to hit her.

Draco had no idea what to say to her, this best friend of the boy he'd helped kill, his arch nemesis. It should have been triumphant, having her subject to his every whim. It seemed to him petty, though. Petty and sort of sad. About to say something that might have bordered on kind, he noticed that the girl was glaring at him, hatred clear in her eyes. Draco forced himself to smirk. Fine. He could be the monster she expected him to be. One more expectation to meet. "And here we are. The Mudblood Bookworm and the Dark Lord's right hand man." Draco took the glass of brandy that appeared at his side from the shaking house elf. Hermione's head was still held high, immune to Draco's insults. He'd have to try a bit harder, then. "Who would have thought you'd fall so far? You know, your name was the last thing Weasley managed to say before he died. It was quite romantic."

Hermione looked stricken. "I suppose you think you're clever, Malfoy."

Ah, that worked well. Draco smiled. "Yes. I do, actually. Don't bruise your face, there, luv, can't have my serving girls going about with black eyes."

Her jaw clenched, Hermione was struggling to keep her hands at her side, resisting the overpowering urge to knock her head into something. "How…dare you?" She managed to snap.

"I thought you were the smart one. I must have been mistaken." As if explaining to a child, he continued, "The spell that binds you to me is the same spell that binds house elves. You will serve me, and my family for the rest of your life. Don't worry too much, there's only one Malfoy left at the moment, I'm sure you'll have some time left over to read."

"There are laws against this!"

Draco sighed. She wasn't supposed to whine. Her whimpering was starting to hurt his head. "Who's going to enforce them, Granger? The Minister of Magic, at this very moment, is sitting on his yacht, just off the coast of Greece, being serviced by his own private troop of grade A, prime muggle-born witches, all of which he bought from Voldemort. And quite a few muggle-born preteen wizards as well, let me tell you. Likes it every which way, Fudge does."

"You…can't." Hermione's knees seemed quite suddenly unable to support her, and she crumbled, tears still falling, and her heart seemed to go numb, as if trying desperately to protect itself from more pain.

"I can, and I have." Draco drained his brandy, wishing he could just drink the whole bottle and go to bed and be so drunk he'd have, for once, a clean, dreamless sleep. It never worked, though. No matter how hard he tried, nothing could erase the stains on his hands, not even for a moment.

"You're a monster." Hermione's voice was almost inaudible.

"I'm aware, Granger. I'm a monster. I'm a disgusting scrap of humanity, and I deserve to burn in hell for all eternity. I completely agree. However I'm the one binding you, and the least you can do for me is stop sniveling, get into something clean and dry and get new drapes so the fucking Dark Lord will stop snipping at me about the decor." Headache. Head hurt. No patience to explain anything, nor any energy given to thought, or he might not have spoken those words exactly like that.

Hermione stared. "Drapes…? You…want new drapes?"

"I don't care about the bloody drapes, but apparently they don't please my Master. So yes. New drapes. Do you think you can handle that?"


End file.
